Be Still, My Beating Heart
by Alaina Ross
Summary: Bella lives a quiet life with her mother in Phoenix, AZ when she finds a letter explaining that her estranged father was killed in the line of duty. Distraught that she never had a chance to know him, Bella makes a split second decision to travel to Forks. Twilight AU, AH, No Edward.
1. Chapter 1

Hello Readers! I understand that is has been a long time since I've been in the FF game, so review and critiques are highly appreciated. This is a story that has been fighting to come out for a few months now, having lived through a few tragic experiences of my own. I hope you all enjoy, new chapters will be posted weekly.

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Dust is an interesting metaphor for the passage of time. It can mark time silently and unobtrusively; easily recognized by all cultures, and just as easily washed away. So when I found the letter tucked into the side table of my mother's dresser, I knew by the amount of dust covering the front that a significant amount of time had passed since it had last been touched.

My mother had deliberately kept my father's death from me. Not that I really knew him, He left him when I was just a toddler. I have only vague memories of him, nothing to truly mourn. Which is why I couldn't understand why I was shaking so bad as I unfurled the letter from the Fork's Police Department. He had died in the line of duty, a heart attack chasing down a suspect. I tried to picture his face, anything about him, but only shapes remained.

When I confronted her about it, my voice took on this strange strained quality, like I was trying to speak through a muted microphone. My face felt tight and flushed, and the shaking of the letter was audible as I struggled to keep my hand still.

"Mom," I said, grimacing at how _upset_ I sounded. "What is this."

She was sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through a People Magazine. She looked lazily over her shoulder, seeing the letter in my hand. If she had any reaction to it, I certainly didn't see it.

"Issy, why are you looking through my things." She spoke to the glossy pages, rather than to me.

"Why didn't you tell me Charlie died." It wasn't even a question, mostly because I didn't expect an answer.

"Bella, he wasn't a father to you!" She turned around now, facing me with her blazing angry eyes. "Where was he when you graduated high school? When you had your ballet recital? When you started kindergarten? He was not your father! He left you!" There was no point in arguing when she got like this. It had always been me and her since I can remember. We've always been a team, so it surprised even me when angry tears started to fall from my eyes.

"Yes Bella, get upset, because that always solves everything." She scoffed angrily and turned back to her magazine. "Get out of my face." Her low voice in contrast with the explosive anger scared me, and I scurried back upstairs to my bedroom. The letter was still clutched in my sweaty hand.

I closed the door quietly behind me, and swiped at the tears in my eyes. It would do no good to cry. I laid the letter reverently on my bedspread, and sat with my head in my hands. I knew nothing about my father, or my former father I suppose. I only knew he had come home one night and ordered my mother out of the house. She packed what she could carry, fearing for her life and mine, and in the cover of night we were gone.

With slowly drying eyes, I gazed out my window onto the Phoenix suburb we lived in. The sun was just beginning to set, and an orange glow cast into my bedroom. I wanted to know more, I needed to understand why a man who had never been in my life was suddenly gone.

I was 18 now, a senior in high school. I had school in the morning, and my packed backpack sat at the foot of my bed. I reached down to pull my homework out, and before I realized what was happening, I had emptied it completely. My school things on the floor, I stood and walked to my closet.

I am not sure why I did it, or why the compulsion to learn more about my father was so strong, but within a few hours, I had packed my backpack with a few outfits, my MacBook, and a book, and was making my way downstairs. I had the letter from the Forks Police Department stuffed in my back pocket, and my phone out, buying a flight to Tacoma, Washington. I stood at the bottom of the steps, watching my mother for a few moments, she turned around to face me.

"Where are you going?" She asked, a current of anger still vibrated under her words.

"I'm going to go study with James. We have a quiz on Mansfield Park tomorrow." The lie rolled easily off my tongue, as it had for so many years. When I pulled the front door shut behind me, I idly wondered when I would see her again, and was surprised to find out that I didn't care.

It took two buses and a couple miles walking to reach the airport, which gave me time to reflect on my decision. Panic rolled through my chest at what I had just done, my mind was racing, and it was still a few more hours before my midnight flight. I think the nice woman who checked me in noticed how bad I was shaking, but she didn't say anything, thank god. I felt like any moment I was going to crack and run back home, apologizing to my mother, and promising to never speak about my father again.

I settled down at the gate for my flight, and pulled out my copy of Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. I truly did have a quiz tomorrow on it, whether or not I actually made it to class. It eased my mind some to identify with poor Fanny, leaving the only home she'd ever known to go live with complete strangers, and by the time my flight boarded, I was beginning to feel better about my choices.

It didn't take long for me to fall asleep, and before I knew it, I was waking up over San Francisco for my first layover. It was early, the sun was just starting to rise, and I spent my short moments in California gazing out the massive bay windows watching planes take off and land. I wondered where these people were going, and whether they felt as awful as I did.

I'm not one to make spur of the moment decisions, more often than not I overthink things to the point where I have talked myself out of it. Even in San Francisco, a thousand miles away from my mother's home in Phoenix, I was still uncertain if I made the right decision. I pulled the thin MacBook from my bag and checked my email while I waited for my flight to board. I was curious if my mother had reached out to me, as my phone had remained silent thus far. Nothing. I checked one more time to be sure and put it away.

I was still sitting on the crumpled letter in my back pocket, and I pulled it out once more to inspect it. It was typed on official letterhead, and it skillfully conveyed the condolences of the entire department, signed in a messy script by an Arthur Nylund. I hadn't really given much thought to what I would do once I arrived in Forks, but the return address on this letter seemed like a good place to start.

The gate attendant called my boarding group, and I hastily stuff the letter back in my pocket before grabbing my bag. I probably should have packed more, or brought something bigger, but I was so thankful when I saw people trying to stuff oversized luggage into the overhead compartment. For the second time in 12 hours, I fell asleep before we had even taxied down the runway. Running away is exhausting.

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It was a warm overcast afternoon when we finally landed in Seattle/Tacoma. I was able to escape the airport quickly, not having checked any luggage. It was going to take two long buses to travel the five hours up the Olympic peninsula to Forks. I was thankful that I never got carsick, and pulled my battered copy of Mansfield Park back out. I delighted in hearing about this large but loving group of relatives that lived in the country side. I daydreamed that I would be able to find the happiness that Fanny had, living in the attic above the park, surrounded by her books.

It was hard to read for too long, the road out to the peninsula was breathtakingly beautiful. I spent a good portion of the ride with my forehead pressed against the window, trying to take it all in. At some point, my thoughts drifted to what it would have been like to have lived with both my father and my mother. I reached up and touched my face to find it wet.

There was never a point where I wished for a normal family. My mother and I were a team, we always had been and I never wanted anything different. Sure, we had our hard days, any parent and child did, but it was just fine. I spent most of my time alone, and I liked it that way. I was always more interested in books, than other people. But now, I was aching for a man I didn't know, for a life surrounded by a big loving family. For someone who cared enough to call me when I didn't come home for 24 hours.

Renee was never the touchy freely type, we expressed our love in the form of adventures. We spent every summer break and school holiday on the road. Recently, as I focused more on high school, it became harder to travel as much as we used to. It felt good to be on the road again, regardless of the fact that I was alone.

By the time I finished crying, the bus was slowing down, and pulling into an empty depot. This was it, the end of the line. As I stepped out, I wish I had thought to bring a heavier jacket, drizzle landed in my hair in delicate drops and I didn't have a hood to cover it. I pulled the letter out again, shielding it under a bus shelter, reading the return address on the envelope. According to the map application on my phone, it wasn't far from here. In fact, nothing was far from here. Forks was absolutely tiny.

I set off, stuffing my headphones in my ears to block out the noise of my doubting mind. The walk to the police station was stunningly gorgeous, and for almost dinner time, the town seemed to be buzzing with pedestrians. By the time I had reached the station, three people had already smiled at me. Christ, small town people were weird.

My heart was racing and my ears were flooded with the sound of my pulsing heartbeat, and by the time I pulled the door open I was a wreck. The interior was small, a few cubicles and a receptionist sitting at a beautiful redwood desk.

"Can I help you?" She asked kindly, and I stared at her like an idiot, Arthur Nylund's letter hanging damply in my hand. It took a moment before my stiff, awkward legs carried me to her desk.

"Um, I'm Bella," I began dumbly, "Bella Swan, and-" I didn't get the next sentence out before a flash of recognition crossed her face, and I flinched at her grief.

"You must be Charlie's girl." She said, her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears, and I didn't think it was possible to be even more uncomfortable than I was in that moment.

"Let me go get Arthur, just...just uh, take a seat." She said, motioning towards the orange plastic chairs that lined the wall. She was out of her seat and returning with a tall, balding man before I even had a chance to sit down.

"Arthur this is Bella," she reached her hand toward me, and then added in a softer voice, "Charlie's Bella."

Arthur gave me a knowing, sad smile before reaching out to take my hand.

"Bella, it's so good to see you." He griped my hand like it was a life line. Although he didn't say it, I heard a silent 'again' at the end of his sentence. I was beginning to panic again. What happens next? Did I come all this way just to shake hands with a man who wrote me a letter about my father? I didn't have courage to ask him anything, so I nodded, smiling so he wouldn't think I was weird. My mind was racing, and my pulse was faster and louder than I ever thought was possible.

"Bella," he snapped my out of my dazed state, "would you like to come with me for a moment?" He smiled a kind smile, the kind of smile I imagined a father would give his daughter. Logically, I just met this man, and I knew nothing about him, getting in a car and going anywhere with him was not the smartest idea. Then again, neither was flying 2,000 miles to the Pacific Northwest to see a town that a man I didn't know lived in. I nodded, not trusting my mouth to speak.

"Nance, will you let the boys know where I've gone? I'll be back in a few." Arthur said, placing a hand on my shoulder and leading me out of the office. The teary eyed woman nodded, and returned to her seat with a heavy sigh.

Arthur led me out of the small police station and into a cruiser parked in front of the building. We drove in silence for a few minutes until the awkwardness got to be too much for him, and he cleared his throat before speaking.

"I'm sorry about my wife," he said gently, "Nancy can be a bit emotional at times." He glanced at me, I assumed to gauge my reaction.

"You've grown so much since we've seen you." He continued, and I fought to keep back a grimace.

"Uh," I had to clear my throat of emotion before continuing, "Thank you."

"Charlie was a good man," he said, his face seemed pinched in pain. I had to close my eyes to keep tears from spilling out. After a few short moments, I felt the car begin to slow, and I opened my eyes. We slowly parked in front of a modest Victorian home, with a rusted orange truck parked in the driveway. The house looked like it hadn't been touched in a long time, paint was chipping off the siding, and at least two of the window shutters were hanging on one hinge. It was surrounded on three sides by majestic Douglas fir trees, and I felt a weird pull in my chest.

"Is this..." I trailed off, hoping Arthur would understand what I meant. He nodded.

"We've left it the same, we weren't sure what to do with it." I got out of the cruiser, my legs felt numb and wiggly. The driveway crunched under my feet as I reached the rear of the old truck. I placed a hand on the beast, almost lovingly.

Arthur plodded up to the front porch through wet grass, and unhooked a key from a large key ring.

"I supposed this is yours now," he said handing me the key, "you were the only family he had."

I slipped the key into the lock, and turned, opening the door slowly. A smell unlike anything I could describe reached my nose, the only word for it was _home_. I turned to Arthur, who shuffled awkwardly on the porch.

"I'll uh, leave you to it." He said. "If you need anything, me and the boys at the station as available anytime." I nodded, still silent.

He turned to walk away, and only made it off the first step before turning back. "Everyone loved your father Bella, we are all so sorry to see him go." Tears immediately spilled from my eyes, before I could stop them. The emotion of the last 24 hours were so overwhelming that it took everything I had to remain standing. Arthur Nylund closed the distance between us and pulled me into a hug. He patted my back awkwardly, trying to console this crying teen in his arms.

When he finally pulled away, I wiped at my eyes. "Thank you." I said, my voice stronger now.

"Call if you need anything," he said, "we'll be around."

With that, he returned to his vehicle and pulled away from the house. I stood on that porch for a long time after he left, not ready to go inside. It seemed insane to me that at the same time yesterday, I had been standing in my mothers kitchen, holding a letter that said half of who made me is dead. I was never a person who made irrational decisions, I didn't do things like this. Yet, hear I was standing on a strangers porch, waiting to go inside and find out who my dad really was.

"Well," I said to myself, "here I am." I stepped across the threshold.

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Reviews are highly appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello readers! Thank you for the feedback so far! This has been a rewarding story to write so far, so please keep the reviews coming! Just an FYI, its finals week at Uni here, so chapter uploads may be a little sparse for the next week or so, I appreciate your patience. Thank you for your continued support!

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I had a friend once who had this guinea pig. She took the noisy thing with her everywhere, keeping it stuffed in her pocket, feeding it scraps from her lunch. It eventually grew too big to fit in her pocket, the thing was over a foot long at this point. I hated that beast, but she looked at it like it was the sun and the moon and everything in between. So when it died a few months later, this girl was totally and completely distraught about it. She invited everyone over to have a funeral for the poor thing, where she was going to slowly lower its bloated body into the ground.

There was only one problem, she lived in a luxury apartment in Phoenix, the only soil her family had was a flower pot on the patio. So, naturally, she gathered everyone up to walk to the park at midnight to bury the damn thing. There we stood, freezing our asses off while this girl dug a hole for a dead guinea pig with her mother's tiny flower shovel. She even had a painted headstone for it and everything. When we finally got back to the apartment, I asked her what she wanted to do with the cage and all the junk she bought for it over the years. She only shrugged and dumped it all down the garbage chute in the hall.

So when I stepped into my fathers house for the first time, I was so thankful that guinea pig girl wasn't around when he died. Everything remained entirely untouched, albeit covered in a thick blanket of dust. To my right, there was a small table that people would typically leave mail and keys and things on. On it laid a single key chain with two keys and a worn leather fob. I easily assumed these to be his truck keys, and I pocketed them for later.

I made my way further into the house, disrupting tiny flurries of dust with my fingers. I couldn't stop touching things, like an unsupervised child in a china shop. I traced the walls with my hands, bumping into photos of my smiling mother, and an infant I can only assume to be myself. There were dozens of them, and no pictures of Charlie. Around every corner, I would find another toothless Bella in a cheap convenience store frame.

Since before I can remember, my mother told the same story about how my father left, and she always told it in this exasperated tone.

"Bella," she would say, "You know how it happened." And I did know how it happened, or at least I thought I did.

"When you were just a baby," she began, "you father worked very hard to support us. He worked a lot of hours at the station, but he was just a young cadette." I tried to picture him now, with the slobbery infant in all the photos.

"He was so overworked," she would say, getting emotional here, "He couldn't take it. He came home one night and said he couldn't handle it anymore." I gently fingered one of those cheesy professional baby portraits, where I was asleep on a giant foam letter 'B'.

"I thought maybe he would just be gone for a few hours," Renee always looked down at her hands here, her voice taking on this weird, low quality. "I moved back in with my parents after two weeks, and we've been here ever since." She would pat my knee and tell me to go out and play or something, and I would always sit outside on the side walk, imagining this great muscular man coming home after all those years. He would sweep my mother off of her feet, and I would cling to his legs and we would cry and cry. I would have brothers and sisters, and Renee wouldn't yell so much and it would all be the way it was supposed to be.

And yet, I stood in my father's living room, surrounded by ghosts of some other life I had lived, and I couldn't remember why I had imagined him all those times. My chest began to tighten, and I gripped that stupid department store photo in my sweaty hand. My eyes burned, and the world around me started to blur. I let out a ragged sob, and pressed the photo to my chest, swiping at the tears threatening to fall with the back of my free hand.

It took a few moments, but the tightness in my chest loosened and I returned the photo to its spot beside the couch. I worked my way into the dining room, where I found bits and pieces of decoration that I can only assume to be my mothers. A hand crocheted doily in the center of the breakfast table, flower patterned curtains, and an empty rose vase on the windowsill. The kitchen was fairly clean for a bachelor pad.

I had seen the staircase when I first walked in, but it looked like I had run out of places to explore on the lower level, and would have to venture up the stairs. As I made my way up, I imagined the tiny toddler version of myself attempting to get up and down these wooden steps. I smiled, imagining my already clumsy legs navigating the intricate planks. I pictured what it would be like to have Charlie at the top of the stairs, encouraging the fat little toddler. For a moment, I almost thought I was going to reach the top of the stairs and wrap myself in the arms of a man I never met.

The first door at the top of the stairs was a bathroom, sparse but clean. After that, two closed doors remained, and I knew one of them would be Charlie's room. I didn't want to go inside, but I knew a part of me wouldn't have closure if I didn't at least look. I prayed to whatever benevolent God would allow me to open the door and not find some horrific secret inside.

In the end, I picked the doorway on the right. As I pushed my way into the room, the smell of home that had greeted me when I first entered the house increased tenfold. Suddenly I was swaddled in warmth and comfort and it nearly took me off my feet. The room was simple, a bed, a dresser, a side table, but it was the photo on the side table that caught my eye.

My mother stood beaming into an invisible camera, dressed in a beautiful white gown, with intricately curled hair framing her soft face. The man standing next to her was so familiar that I had to remind myself that the last time I saw him, I was shitting myself and constantly had to have someone clean the drool off my chin. I saw my oblong nose reflected in his face, my deep, brown eyes gazing back at me under thick, bushy eyebrows.

I didn't notice how hard it was becoming to breath until I reached for the photo. My father was standing next to my mother, holding her tightly against his chest so her hair spilled over his chin. He was an attractive young man, and I understood what Renee saw in him. His face was unbelievably kind and trustworthy, and I knew he must have made an excellent cop with a face like that.

Blindly, I groped my way out of the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind me with an echoing slam. I threw open the last door, not exactly knowing what to expect, but needing something other than the comfort I was finding in a dead man's room. I stepped inside, the wedding photo still clutched against my heart, and was on my knees in an instant.

I was in a world of pink, surrounded by lace. A crib remained to my right, overlooking the spacious backyard. There was a changing table covered with boxes of unused diapers, and the floor was scattered with sealed boxes marking "Bella" or "Renee." Tears were falling freely now, leaving dark spots on my pants. Breathing was becoming extraordinarily difficult, and I found myself curled up on the floor, surrounded by things for a baby that had long since grown up.

I heaved loud, shuddering breaths, and soon I was sobbing inconsolably. Simultaneously, I understood everything and did not understand anything. My father had kept everything exactly the way it was when my mother left. _My mother_ was the one who left. My entire life in Phoenix was a lie. _She_ had left _him._ I was so confused and angry, hot tears soaked the carpet under my temple. The wedding photo was sill clutched in my hand, but the **f** lood of tears kept my vision too obscured to see it. Still, I ran my grubby fingers across the plastic frame, feeling its age with every pass.

It took a long time for me to calm down. I cried like an infant for a **long** time, loud and unceasing. The exhaustion of the day, the anger I felt for my mother, the grief for a father I never knew, it was enough to drive me into primal state. I left purple crescent moons in my palms where I clutched and pounded my fists against the carpet. When I finally fell asleep, my mouth was gaping open, breathing hard. Snot ran down my face, mixing with tears to cake my skin with salt. My face was so tight and inflamed that I stayed on the carpet just to feel the coolness of the floor. I slept fitfully that night, but unwilling to move myself from this nursery bedroom.

The next morning I felt infinitely better. The tight anxiety that rested in my chest since I had left Phoenix had loosened, and I began to feel slightly more comfortable here in my father's house. _My_ house, I reminded myself.

I stayed in the bedroom for a few minutes after I woke up, laying on the floor. I traced the edges of the room with my eyes, trying to see if I could remember anything about being in this place. I knew I must have laid like this often when I was little, just staring at the ceiling, waiting.

Eventually, my need for caffeine won out, and I slowly stood, stretching my sore back. In retrospect, the floor was not the best place to spend the night on. I padded down the stairs, still wearing the same clothes as the day before, and ventured into the kitchen with the vain hope of finding coffee.

Empty. I supposed that now is no better time than any to head to the grocery store. I remembered that Charlie's keys to his truck were still in my pocket from the night before, I fingered them gently, running my thumb over the worn leather fob. It took a few tries, but the old behemoth eventually started, and I made quick work of finding Fork's only grocery store.

Pulling into the crowded parking lot, it took me a few minutes to realize it was a Saturday. Moms and their kids were pilling into and out of cars, carrying loads of groceries packed into brown bags. I felt like I had stepped into a time machine, looking 40 or 50 years into the past. Everyone was all smiles, despite the gloomy drizzle that seemed ever permanent. To be honest, their easy cheeriness frightened me.

I pulled my hood over my head, and crossed the parking lot quickly. Once inside, I left my hood up, hoping to protect myself against whatever jovial disease these happy townsfolk seemed to have contracted. Finding the coffee was the easy part, but I spent the better part of an hour wandering the food isles, a basket hanging from the crook of my elbow.

I had never really eaten alone before, I was always cooking for Renee and me. I was at a loss for what to buy, eventually settling on a loaf of bread, some peanut butter, and two boxes of frozen waffles, and coffee grounds obviously. I wandered through the produce department, knowing that I needed at least some sort of nutritious addition to my basket.

While I stood dumbly in front of an impossibly large display of different varieties of apples, a woman's arm crossed into my field of vision.

"Oh," I said, backing out of her way immediately, "sorry." The woman turned to look at me, smiling and tucking a lock of hair behind her ears. Her brown eyes were warm and kind, and it made my stomach twinge, thinking of the wedding photo on the floor of the nursery.

"No, no," she said, waving her hand dismissively, clutching an apple. "Its my fault." She gestured towards the apple, "the kids only want Honey-crisps."

There was an awkward moment when I took a step back to let the woman in, the basket on my arm clipped a guacamole display and sent the plastic packages tumbling to the floor. The woman turned around, apple still in her hand. I let out an awkward noise, something like a gasp or a chuckle, and was immediately on the floor trying to rectify the mess. Thankfully none of the packages had opened upon falling, trying to clean up the green goopy mess would be too much for me to attempt in my current state.

I had most of the packages back on the stand when I turned around and found the woman smiling at me kindly.

"Um…have a good day," and I scurried away from her, around the next corner. I nearly broke down in tears again, but held it together long enough to queue up behind another family in line for the checkout. The young man scanning my items tried too hard to make conversation, and I am sure I seemed rude ignoring him.

I was just beginning to pull out of the crowded parking lot when I saw the woman again, accompanied by a girl just a bit younger than me. They were unloading a basket into a ridiculously nice Audi. I must have slowed down visibly because the heart-shaped faced woman glanced up again me again, and half raised her hand. Her smile was enough for me to step on the accelerator a bit too hard, and I jolted out of the parking lot.

Everyone was so _nice_ here.

I swallowed thickly and focused on trying to navigate my way back home. Forks was small enough, but Charlie's house was off an unmarked road, and I was worried I would miss the turn off. I was sitting at a stop sign in downtown, watching a group of teenagers cross in the crosswalk in front of me, when I saw the "help wanted" sign in the window of the Newton's Olympic Outfitters.

A thought ran through me, _I could stay here_. I hadn't really considered what I was going to do once I got to Forks. Going back to Phoenix didn't seem like much of an option, and I chided myself for not really thinking it through. I glanced at the grocery bag in the seat next to me, I was going to run out of money at some point.

The teenagers had finished crossing the street, so I pulled ahead and found a parking spot along the crowded downtown strip. I looked at my day-old outfit, and wished I had thought to change before I left the house.

I pushed the door open into the outdoors store, the smell of saw dust and age greeting me once I crossed the threshold. A tiny bell rang above me as I let the door close, signaling to an aging man that I had entered.

"Good morning!" He called out to me from the cash register. He leaned on a glass display of knives, his eyes twinkled with a warm smile.

"Hi," I said, realizing I didn't really know how to continue from here. I half-turned around, gesturing to the general direction of the help wanted sign in the front window.

"I saw the sign…" I trailed off, starting to feel like perhaps bolting for the front door was my best option. The older man smiled and nodded, taking the pressure off the awkward exchange.

"You're here for the job." He gave a knowing smile, and I relaxed a fraction. He stood up from his leaning position to cross to the front of the counter. "I need a day manager," he continued.

I nodded, trying not to seem to eager.

"Can you make a schedule?" He asked, and it didn't seem as accusing as I expected it to.

"Yes," I replied, hoping he didn't expect me to elaborate.

"Can you be here at 9 tomorrow?" he asked, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. His smile twinkled mischievously.

"Yeah" I said a bit too quickly, too eager. He reached out his hand, gesturing for a handshake.

"Welcome onboard…" he trailed off, waiting for me to supply my name.

"Bella," I answered, pride swelling in my chest. I just got a job. I could make a life here in Forks, I wouldn't have to leave if I didn't want to.

"Bella." He repeated. Recognition flashed in his eyes, but he didn't say any more than that. I was exceedingly grateful, I wasn't sure I was going to be able to hold it together if the circumstances were different.

I turned to leave and he shouted back at me, "Don't be late." I waved and pulled the door shut behind me, the tiny bell tinkling.

Walking back to my truck, I felt good about my decision to leave Phoenix for the first time since saying goodbye to my mother. I felt grown up and real, I had a job and a house and coffee. I drove back home, elation making my arms and legs tingle. I possessed a confidence I hadn't ever had before, I could take care of myself here in this new town. I didn't need anyone's help but my own.

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Reviews are highly appreciated.


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